


Don’t Ratiocinate, My Life is the Stuff of Dreams

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [15]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Birthday Presents, Clueless person, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Romance, Tom Plots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tom is plotting,” I said a few days (weeks, hours, I don’t know) ago. </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Tom. Is. Plotting.”</p><p>“Isn’t Tom always plotting? World domination? Enslaving the masses with charming smiles?”</p><p>“Benedict.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s the second time someone’s said my name that way today. What gives?”</p><p>“Tom. Is. Plotting.”</p><p>“Okay. Check. Tom is plotting. Why should I care what he is plotting…other than if it’s to do something drastic…like marrying Pamela without telling her? That would be bad. Also, I suspect that would upset the fangirls.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Ratiocinate, My Life is the Stuff of Dreams

_A/N: Since I haven’t said this in awhile, thank you so much for your reviews, thoughts, and kudos on this story._

_“Birthday” was written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney._

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

The loud, ringing cell phone woke Pamela instead of her alarm. Blearily, she flopped her hand at the nightstand till she felt the light radiating, noise emanating object. She stared at the screen, seeing Tom’s goofy, smiling face. 

She kept forgetting he’d taken a self-portrait of himself and set it as the picture that popped up when he called. 

Pamela slid her finger across the screen to accept the call. She didn’t bother saying anything, as the moment the ringing stopped, music blasted out so loud, she had to hold the phone away from her ear. 

_“They say it’s your birthday! It’s my birthday too, yeah! They say it’s your birthday! We’re gonna have a good time! I’m glad it’s your birthday! Happy birthday to you!”_

Pamela stared at the offending thing in her hand, squinting at the bright light it was issuing. It was loud and blinding. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Tom’s voice shouted as the music faded into the background. 

“Huh?” Pamela asked, still staring at the phone as the light finally went off. The room was plunged into darkness once more. She put the phone to her ear and repeated, “Huh?” 

“Pamela, dove, it’s your birthday!”

“It is?”

Tom was silent for a long beat, then slowly said, “Yes, unless Door told me the date fallaciously.”

“What’s the date?”

Tom sighed good naturally. “It’s the eighteenth of June.”

“Oh. It is my birthday.”

Tom laughed. “How’d you forget your own birthday?”

“I usually do,” Pamela admitted. “I mean, I wonder why I’m getting cards an influx of mail, but then I see the cards and realize it’s that time of year. Haven’t gotten any cards because all my mail’s going to my mom’s.”

“Your parents don’t phone you on the actual date?”

“Uh, no. They usually call around the date, but due to my job, I’m kind of hard to get a hold of sometimes,” Pamela admitted, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. “My mom called me yesterday. I guess that was why…”

“How can you not make a big deal about this?” Tom asked, sounding incredulous. “How old are you?”

“I don’t know…twenty-eight? I was born in 1985.”

“Yes, you’re twenty-eight. A young ’un.”

“Door freaked out when she turned twenty-eight. Actually, Door’s been freaking out about how old she is since she turned twenty-five.”

“Oh, being in your thirties is marvelous,” Tom trilled. “Didn’t Door stop freaking out after that mile marker?”

“No. She’s not thirty yet,” Pamela said. “A fact she is all too happy to point out you’ve failed to realize.”

“Oops.”

“What time is it?”

“Oh, too _matutinus_ to call, but I had to phone a little early to catch you. Did you know you share the same birthday as Sir Paul McCartney?”

“No. I do?”

“You do! You do know who he is, do you not?”

“Uh…does he…sing or something?”

Tom groaned. “He’s a Beatle!”

“He’s a beetle?”

Pamela held back a giggle as Tom screeched, “Eek gawds! You have to know the greatest rock ’n’ roll band of the twentieth century! The _Beatles_! John Lennon and Paul McCartney! ‘Love Me Do!’ ‘A Hard Day’s Night!’ ‘Yesterday!’ ’Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band!’ Ringo Star! George Harrison! Beatlemania!”

“Oh, those Beatles,” Pamela laughed. Tom made a noise over the line that sounded like he was smacking his head against the wall. “Yes, I know who those Beatles are, Thomas. Was that a song of theirs you blasted at me?”

“Of course! You’ve got a surprise from me that will hopefully arrive at some point during the day,” Tom said, excitement dripping in his voice.

“You didn’t order me flowers, did you?”

“No. Why would I do that?” Tom inquired, sounding affronted. “You’re not a flower girl, dear dove. But, you’ll love what I did get you. I hope. If you don’t, let me know and I’ll get something else.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“If it isn’t everything you dreamed of, please tell me, okay?”

“Fine.”

“I must dash. Have a lovely day and eat pudding. Lots and lots of pudding.”

Pamela laughed. “Sure, Thomas.”

“Pudding,” he ordered. 

“I’ll try to find some,” Pamela relented. 

“Pictures or it didn’t happen.”    

* * *

Pamela arrived back at the hotel and climbed the stairs up to her room with her HEB single slice of cake she’d gotten to fill Tom’s request she eat pudding (she had learned that didn’t mean _pudding_ but all kinds of desserts in British). Upon entering her room, Pamela noticed the phone on the desk flashing red, meaning someone had left a message. 

“Who’d leave a message here?” Pamela asked the empty room. 

Picking the phone up, she listened to the message, and felt a little confused. While her family and Door knew the hotel she was staying at, she didn’t imagine anyone would send her a package. No one had mailed her anything on her birthday since she entered the Air Force. Most years she got online vouchers or donations made to charities in her name (her mom was big on that). She got the occasional card, but any cards mailed this year would be forwarded to her mom’s house in Colorado Springs. 

Pamela arrived back in her room five minutes later holding a small box that looked like it’d gone through hell and back. Sitting down on the couch, she realized the box had originated in the UK and immediately knew this was the surprise Tom had alluded to earlier. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she cut the tape on the top and peered inside. There was a black, square, rather bulky box and a card. Pamela took the card out and read:

_Pamela,_

_‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts…’ - William Shakespeare, ‘All the World’s a Stage’_

_‘Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love.’  -_ _Hamlet_ _, Act II, Scene II_

_‘Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know.’ -_ _Twelfth Night_ _, Act II, Scene III_

_Love,_

_Tom X_

_PS. You better have pudding._

Smiling, Pamela set the card down and picked up the other container. She turned it over in her hands till realizing it opened like a jewelry box. Flipping it open, Pamela found a watch. Her eyes went wide as she studied the silver, metal watch while wondering where on Earth he’d found such a perfect watch. It was a combination of digital and analog, function and beauty. Pamela had never heard of the brand, but by the feel of the object (and the box it came in), it was expensive. It wasn’t bulky, ugly or made for a man like the cheap watches Pamela had been buying since becoming a pilot. While she doubted she could run to Walmart to replace this one like the one currently on her wrist, this watch…she loved it. 

 Pamela ran her fingers over the entire watch and discovered it was engraved on the back. Flipping the watch over, Pamela was greeted by an image. It looked like a pair of wings behind a comedy and tragedy mask. The wings looked like the wings that appeared on Pamela’s name tag— a symbol of her pilot status. 

Turning the watch back over, she unstrapped the old one, tossed it out, and put the new one on. Smiling as she stared at her wrist, she figured she’d have to do research to understand out the meaning of the image on the back of the watch as well as the quotes Tom had chosen for his note. Pamela had never excelled in decoding Shakespeare. 

An hour later she had the following:

1\. Tom’s an actor. He plays parts.

2\. Don’t doubt Tom’s feelings. They are true.

3\. They’d meet again. Duh.

The symbol on the back (after consulting with Door) was Tom’s answer to the pilot sweetheart bracelet Door used to wear. (Door explained Tom had been somewhat fascinated by the bracelet.) Given to sweethearts by their pilot boyfriends during World War Two, the bracelets had a charm with wings and propellors. Tom had removed the propellor from the image and placed his own profession’s symbol: the comedy and tragedy masks.

Pamela was a pilot and an actor’s sweetheart. 

She was also currently a puddle of mush. 

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Luke looked dubious. 

“Are you serious?”

“No. I’m Tom.”

“Tom.”

“Luke.”

“Did Benedict ask you to do this?”

“No.”

“Door didn’t ask you to do this either?”

“No. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is you’re busy,” Luke reiterated for the millionth time. “You’ve got places to go, things to rehearse and…and…and…”

“No time to do something nice for my friends?”

Luke beat his head with his tablet for a moment. 

“If you don’t want to help me, I’ll just use my own camera skills,” Tom said, turning around to leave the office. 

“I can’t find someone who will work for free,” Luke said, sounding tired. “How can you not find someone yourself is beyond me— you have to know a photographer.”

“I know of several. I’ve worked with them. I want someone unknown, someone who needs a break, yet has talent. And yes, will work for free as I don’t know how Door and Ben would react if I gifted them with a full photo shoot with some big time photographer. Plus, I’d like to give someone a break.”

Luke sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. “Fine. You want an art student?”

“Sure. I don’t honestly care.”

Luke made a few noises of frustration, hit himself again with his tablet, then sighed deeply as if he was giving up. “Ask Cameron.”

“Pardon?”

“Cameron. The PA you have that you never see?”

Tom nodded. “I know who Cameron is, Luke.”

“Good. Since you never see him, you might forget he’s younger than you and might know the sort of person you’re looking for. Now, go. Work. Be you.”

“I’m always myself, Luke.”

“I know. Go bother someone else.”

“I don’t bother you.”

“No. That’s the problem. I do have other clients. Do you have a suit for _Much Ado_?”

“Yes, Luke. Am I going alone?”

“Yes. Unless Pamela materializes,” Luke grumbled, flicking his fingers across the tablet. He glanced up to find Tom still standing in his office and said, “Other clients.”

“It’s a sin I’m not your only client,” Tom teased, turning to go to the door. “Are we still allowed to dine together tomorrow night?”

“Yes, Tom. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Cheerio!”

Tom exited the office, pulling out his mobile. He dialed and waited for Cameron to pick up. 

* * *

“This is it?”

“Well, yeah. You said you wanted an art student who needed a break,” Cameron said, looking perplexed when they met outside a cafe in North London. 

It was somewhat chilly for early June, yet there were still people seated outside even though Tom had chosen to wear his jacket. He felt almost over dressed next to the people in short sleeves sitting outside the cafe— especially since he was also wearing a jumper. 

He was oddly cold today. 

“That’s the work I’ve got,” Cameron said. 

Tom studied the few photos Cameron had handed over. “It is fashion based I guess…”

“Can I have that?”

“What?”

“I’m starved,” Cameron said, eyeing the takeout container in Tom’s arms. 

Tom had been at the cafe reading a script before Cameron had texted saying he was in the area and had the photos for Tom to look over. Upon spotting Cameron, Tom had gotten the remaining portion of his breakfast put into a take away container.

“Sure. Here.”

“Thank you,” Cameron gushed, then glanced over Tom’s shoulder. “Pap at your six.”

“I know. I saw him when I came outside,” Tom admitted. “I gave him broody face.”

Cameron chuckled, eyeing the pastry in the box with hungry eyes. 

“These are quite nice,” Tom said, stuffing the photos into the script he had with him. 

“You gonna use her?” Cameron asked, looking hopeful. 

“I believe so,” Tom said. “I can keep the shots, right?”

Cameron nodded. “I wrote her contact info on the back. I mentioned you were looking so if she didn’t make the cut, I asked her to have some suggestions.”

Tom made a surprised face. “Oh.”

“She and her group tend to stick together and help one another out,” Cameron explained. “So, I’ll talk to you later. Let me know when you want to do this thing, so no one can schedule you for anything else.” 

“Yes, yes. I know,” Tom said, nodding his head. “I still must find people to model the girly bags. I’ve been seen one too many times with a hideous purse already.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you and the orange thing,” Cameron laughed. “Wait…that bag was designed by Benedict’s friend, right?”

Tom nodded.

“And you need the photographer for her…new line?”

“Yes. She’s moving passed orange bags,” Tom assured Cameron. 

Cameron shook his head, said his goodbyes and waved with the hand holding his juice bottle as he walked off. Tom rearranged the script in his arms and headed across the street, putting on his brooding, deep thinking face for the photographer hanging out across the street.  

Inside, he was giggling up a storm. 

* * *

“I feel as if I turned into Ben,” Tom announced two weeks later.

“Why?”

“I’m busy. Constantly. And much of it is my own making,” Tom sighed. 

Pamela quirked an eyebrow at him over Skype, resting her head in her hand. Tom took note of the freckles that sprinkled across her nose that were getting denser and darker as she spent more time out in the sun. She often sat under a light fixture and between the light from her laptop and the lamp, she usually appeared slightly washed out, but tonight, the light was at a different angle— or she was in a different room. 

“Where are you, cinnamon?”

“Huh? Oh,” Pamela said. “I’m sitting at the bar in the kitchen. See.”

She moved and showed him the lounge behind her.

“I was eating when you called, so I just moved the laptop. It’s not plugged in either, so the screen is dimmer,” she explained, seeming to know why he had noticed in the first place. 

“You’ve got freckles,” Tom said, grinning at her. 

She groaned, covering her nose. “I know. They come out in droves in the summer. You should see me after a few days in the desert.”

Tom grinned at the thought of the freckles across the bridge of her nose after the desert sun forced them to show themselves. 

“I’m too old for freckles,” she moaned into her hands.

“You’re never too old for freckles,” Tom tried to convince her. 

“Says you. I need to remember to put sunscreen on. Sitting in the T-6 on the runway….I’m still surprised I’ve got freckles. The mask should prevent them,” she remarked, removing her hand from her face. “So, besides checking my nose out and being super busy, what’s going on?”

“Well, I think I got everything set up to shoot a few shots for Ben and Door,” Tom casually said. “I found a photographer looking for a break. After asking around, I finally found someone besides my sister who isn’t horridly busy to help me out and be a girl.”

Pamela quirked her eyebrow again. 

“I can’t model purses on my own,” Tom insisted with a laugh. “I’ve got Lara for an hour.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Yeah. The trouble is scheduling the shoot between our schedules,” Tom sighed. 

“Have you spoken to Door?”

“Not much. Exchanged a few tweets,” Tom said. “I think we’re both rather busy. I’ve been trying to pin down Ben, but I think I missed him.” 

“No, he’s there.”

“Oh? And you know because?”

“Door’s freak out over his outfit?” Pamela asked, looking bemused to why Tom didn’t know this information.

“His outfit?”

“Yeah. He was wearing shorts, a scarf, rubber flip-flops, and a hat,” Pamela said, looking perplexed as to why that bothered Door. 

Frowning, Tom decided to look into the matter himself. He headed to Google, and within a few minutes he understood Door’s pain. 

“Yes, the scarf in the middle of the summer is a bit of an overkill. It’s not that cold here,” Tom observed, shaking his head at Ben the Fashion Disaster. “He really cannot dress himself sometimes.”

“Says the man with the bright blue suit,” Pamela muttered.

“Hey, I looked _good_ in that suit. Blue is my color.”

“Of course, darling,” Pamela drawled in a very good impression of Tom’s accent. She laughed a round, full belly kind of laugh. 

Tom adored that laugh. 

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

What was I thinking?

Don’t answer that, because I already know the answer.

I wasn’t thinking.

I don’t think.

I gave it up.

Don’t think. Whatever you do, don’t think.

Wait, wasn’t that _blink_ not _think_?

“Door, what on Earth are you doing?”

I look up from where I’ve been trying to streamline my purse making to find my mother standing in the doorway to the “workshop” as we’ve come to call it. 

I should start a waiting list. Hermès had a waiting list for Birkin bags. I can have a waiting list, right?

“Uh, trying to streamline my sewing method?” I ask, wondering why she’s asking me this. It was her idea.

I look up at her. She’d dressed in an ancient sweatshirt and carrying a blanket. It’s not exactly hot out today, but we’re both dressed for winter because the basement is cold, dank, and unfinished. We’ve got the only unfinished basement in DuPage County, I swear. Everyone fixes up their basements expect the Judocs. My dad tried to fix it up…then discovered he was allergic to drywall dust, so there ended the Mr Fix-It phase of his life. It also ended any hope of finishing the basement passed the few walls he managed before he quit. (He made himself a darkroom and wood shop, which he’s never used. And who needs a darkroom these days any ways? Well, besides Ben, who knew what it was without me telling him and looked interested in the expired chemicals and all the crap that goes into the old fashion method of developing photos. I think he just likes old things…like that evil cappuccino machine he’s got at his flat.) 

“Did you fill the orders for today?” Mom asks, sitting down at the table across from me. (And by table I mean an old piece of plywood we had lying around that we put on top of these salvaged barrels my dad had in college that he used to make tables oddly enough. I’ve no idea where the tabletops he used went…) 

(The crafting gene clearly runs in the family. On both sides.) 

“Uh…”

She sighs deeply, looking at me like she used to when I did something wrong as a kid. Like the time she came upstairs and found me trapped under the ancient (and super duper heavy) dresser inherited from my great-grandma. (I was too short to reach the top drawer where my mom hid things, so I climbed up using the drawers— even though Mom told me not to as it’d fall on me, which it finally did one day.) 

“Dorothea, fill the orders. You’ve got over fifty to get out TODAY and it’s passed three,” she says, sounding tried, though she doesn’t look exhausted. 

Not fair. 

The website has been live for maybe three weeks? A month? I don’t know. The first week was great. Mom and I were able to keep up with the business and everything was good. Then, yesterday…we exploded. Do you know why? Come on guess. GUESS. I’ll give you a hint. He’s tall, blond, blue eyed, and laughs kind of strangely. 

If you guess Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, then you’re right. 

Yesterday, Tom tweeted a link to the website AND then (since he plotted with my DAD who is in charge of the web site) the photos he did with his sister and IRENE ADLER showed up all over the site and went viral. (Of course they did. Loki and Irene Adler? Seriously?)

And Ben didn’t believe me that Tom was plotting.

“Tom is plotting,” I said a few days (weeks, hours, I don’t know) ago. 

“Huh?”

“Tom. Is. Plotting.”

“Isn’t Tom always plotting? World domination? Enslaving the masses with charming smiles?”

“Benedict.”

“Okay, that’s the second time someone’s said my name that way today. What gives?”

“Tom. Is. Plotting.”

“Okay. Check. Tom is plotting. Why should I care what he is plotting…other than if it’s to do something drastic…like marrying Pamela without telling her? That would be bad. Also, I suspect that would upset the fangirls.” 

“Tom is plotting,” I reiterated. “He’s been texting me quite a few questions today about purses. Why would he ask me so many questions about purses? Then he asked for my DAD’S cell phone number. Why does he want to talk to my Dad?” 

“I don’t know. Did you ask him why?”

“He said, ‘Oh, don’t worry, darling!’ Which doesn’t make me not worry! What is he doing?”

“I don’t know. Is it September yet?”

“No, why?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that a song?”

“No…there’s one asking to wake me up when September ends. By Green Day,” I said, wondering if Ben had hit his head recently. “Ben, you should be worried. Tom’s got an army of fangirls.”

“Don’t I have an army of fangirls?”

“No, you’ve got a collective, or as they call themselves bitches.”

Ben made the sputtering noise he usually makes whenever he’s reminded about what his fans call themselves. Okay, sometimes he doesn’t make a noise at all, just a face, but when I refer to his fans, he sputters. 

“He’s got his army of fangirls. If he says jump, THEY JUMP,” I reminded him. “He’s gonna tell them to JUMP soon, Benedict!”

Ben never really got on board on the panic wagon over Tom’s plotting and today we are NOT friends because Tom’s plot was revealed and now I’m gonna die. (Not that I don’t appreciate his support and the whole fashiony photo shoot he did for free for us. I should have guessed he’d do something like this when I sent him a whole box of purses. It’s my own fault, really. What did I think he was going to do with an entire box of purses? Simply hand them out to his friends and NOT try to help us out in a big way?) 

(Honestly, the whole thing reeks of Tom Hiddleston, Mr Nice Guy.)

(Okay, I’m not mad at Tom. Or Ben. We’re friends again.)

(Not that either one is aware we weren’t friends today. I haven’t spoken to either today.)

Tom Hiddleston’s fangirls want Loki colored purses (also known as forest green with gold hardware). Or orange, as that is the color purse Tom’s burdened with. (Yeah, I’m still turning out orange monstrosities…) 

This two person operation is going to sink unless I really figure out how to streamline the operation. 

Or hire someone.

Too bad Basil can’t sew.

“Into the wood shop. Pack up the orders that have to go out today,” Mom orders.

Each night, before going to bed, Mom prints out all the orders we’ve got in that day. (I’m so glad we put that it will take up to a week to ship out your handmade Benedict & Door purse. That’s about how far behind we are.) Mom, because she’s super organized, made me a board that has seven folders. Each night after she prints out the orders she moves them for me so all I gotta do is grab the GO OUT NOW folder and pack up the purses. 

Thank god I stopped taking custom orders. 

Let’s see…I’ve got the shopping bag of glorious purpose (Pembroke - name of the college Tom attended and the only bag not named for a school either Ben or I attended because it’s the bag from hell Tom made famous tweaked a bit (and I don’t know why we decided to go with schools, it just seemed…I don’t know…interesting)) Uh, let’s see, I’ve got five Lokies (forrest green with gold hardware), three Tardises purses (deep blue with nickel hardware), ten Sherlocks (eggplant and nickel), eight Toms (horrid orange with nickel) and twelve in black with gold hardware. 

The satchel/man bag (Harrow. The posh public school Ben went to)….two Lokies, one Sherlock, one in Thor (a deep red with silver hardware), six blacks and one in brown (burnt bronze hardware). 

The carryall (Manchester- where Ben went to uni)…one brown. 

Clutch (Hammerschmidt - where I attended grade school till ten and a big name for a small purse)…one Loki, one Sherlock, and three in brown.

The various sized totes (Ardmore - other elementary school I went to)….five regulars in blacks, three regular browns, one mini Loki, four mini and one regular Tardises, and four mini Thors. 

And Cricket Heidi’s famous box bottom purse (Kenai- the only purse to carry over from CHD and keep its original name because I didn’t feel like renaming it. I also ran out of nifty named schools, as Jackson is BORING and I hate the Ditch. I’m not naming anything after the Ditch)….five Lokies, ten in brown, one in black and two in Tardises. 

Why don’t I have a clever name from brown and black?

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela hated Texas in the summer. It was hot, uncomfortable and humid. And she kept forgetting to put on sunscreen so now her nose was burt.

How this happened while under an oxygen mask was beyond her. There was honestly not much skin exposed while she was in the T-6, but somehow she was tan and now slightly burnt. 

She did not understand. 

“So, we’re thinking of having a party this weekend.”

Pamela looked up from where she was studying her PUBS in the flight room while creating a flight plan for her flight the next morning.  

“Okay,” she said slowly. 

The guys in her class usually attempted to include her in their weekend plans, but the guys who were single were all fresh from pilot training and juvenile and everyone else was married. With the exception of Door, Pamela couldn’t stand military wives. While she thought they were strong and usually lovely women, there was something about them that made her want to yank her hair out. And if they had kids…she wasn’t sure what it was about them after they had children, but then she really couldn’t stand to be around them and it wasn’t because of the children. 

Pamela thought part of her problem was she had nothing in common with the women— they were married, she was not. They had kids, she had none. She didn’t even have a dog like Door. Pamela had pretty much nothing other than her career and none of the wives wanted to talk planes with her. 

“That’s nice,” Pamela said, smiling at the guy whose name she failed at life remembering. She tired to get a look at his name tag, but his arm was blocking it at the moment. 

“Just a get together, since we haven’t had anyone over since we started. You didn’t show up for that one, but what about this one?” the guy asked, looking pointedly at her as he moved so she could read his name tag: Todd Addams. 

Thank god for name tags. 

“Well, I don’t have anything planned,” Pamela admitted, trying to make it look as if she had not just read his name tag in order to remember who he was exactly (other than Curly, as he had very curly hair). “Is it at your house?”

“Yup. I’ll text you the directions. My wife will be thrilled you’re coming!”

Pamela gave an uncomfortable smile as Todd beamed as her before hurrying off to invite someone else. 

* * *

“What was I thinking?”

“Don’t think. Whatever you do, don’t think,” Door’s voice sounded over the speaker phone as Pamela wound her way up a hill through McMansion central. 

“How does he afford to live here? He’s just…well, I don’t remember his rank now that I think about it,” Pamela admitted.

“He’s the one training to be an instructor for the program you’re in, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Door supplied.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess he could afford to live here in this fancy gated community,” Pamela muttered. “I’m so lost.”

“Of course you are,” Door laughed. “Who was that chick with Tom at Wimbledon?”

“Huh?”

“There’s some chick with long hair and sunglasses clutching his arm. The whole web thinks she’s his girlfriend,” Door explained. “But, I know better. So, who is she?”

“I don’t know. He told me he was attending Wimbledon, but he didn’t mention anyone. I didn’t ask. Why are they saying he’s his girlfriend? Wait, do they still think I’m you?”

Pamela was never going to be able to wrap her head around the fact Tom was famous and the world for some unknown reason thought she was Cricket Heidi. She had no idea how she had been labeled Cricket Heidi in the first place. One night, she’d done a Google search for Cricket Heidi and every, single image for Cricket Heidi that was not a purse had been photos of Pamela and Tom. (The ones from HEB, various ones from that MTV thing he’d dragged her to, and then some ones people snapped during their days in London.) 

“Yeah! They do! They think you’re a handbag designer who just opened up a label with Benedict Cumberbatch!” Door laughs. “Ben says we’re going to have to do promo photos or something so people will know I am Cricket Heidi and not you.”

“Yes, Tom’s not dating you.”

“No. Tom shouldn’t be dating Cricket Heidi, because as far as the world knows she’s still married,” Door muttered.

Something crashed in the background. 

“What was that?”

“Basil.”

“Uh, okay. 

“So, besides watching tennis and NOT carrying a Benedict & Door bag when we went out to dinner the other night with fellow B&D model Irene Adler, what’s Hiddleston been up to?”

“He’s been at Wimbledon and in rehearsals for that play he’s doing this winter. We’ve been having trouble catching one another between his schedule and mine,” Pamela admitted sadly. “What was I thinking?”

She pulled over to the side of the road and rammed her head into the steering wheel a few times.

“That you can’t get enough of his baby blues?” Door asked. “Or you wish he’d grow his hair out so it’d be _Wallander_ curly again?”

“What? No. I meant…”

The party.

Tom.

Her life. 

All the above. 

“I’m not sure what you’re thinking most days as I’m liable to be sectioned soon,” Door said, then gave off an insane sounding giggle. “But, seriously, are you having relationship issues?”

“No. I just…”

“Miss him?”

Pamela made a face and said grudgingly, “Yes.”

Door sighed. “Get used to it, honey. Between your military life and his as an actor, you’re hardly going to see one another. Even if you get married.”

Pamela’s gut twisted at the word _married_. It was WAY too early to be thinking about that. Especially while she was parked on the side of some unnamed, twisted road in the hills of San Antonio lost in a world of beige, almost identical houses. 

“So, when are you done?”

“With what?”

“IP training.”

“Uh…September? Though, if things keep going as they are, I’ll be done almost a month before I  have to report to Vance,” Pamela admitted. 

“So, where will Mr Hiddleston be in August?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask. Then, book your ticket, tell the Air Force to suck it, and go see your lovely boyfriend,” Door said as if it was that easy.

“Am I allowed to travel internationally?”

“Uh…I don’t know. Why not? You put in for some leave and call it a day, right? Jason was planning to use up his leave if he finished early,” Door said as something else crashed in the background. “BASIL! STOP THAT.”

“What is she doing?”

“There’s a fox who lives out behind my parents house. She’s waiting for him to make his nightly stalk through,” Door grumbled. “I think she’s trying to tell him to hurry up by knocking over the planter.” 

“Uh, okay.”

“Weren’t you going to a party?”

“Yeah. I’m lost, remember?”

“Aren’t we all, Pamela, aren’t we all?” 

* * *

“So, who is that woman?”

Pamela blinked.

She’d finally made to the Addams’ house and was currently under siege by a collective of Air Force wives who all wanted the skinny on Tom Hiddleston. 

“No clue,” Pamela admitted. “I honestly have no idea.”

“So you don’t know her?”

One of the women shoved a cell phone into Pamela’s face. She pulled it back and stared at the photos of Tom sitting in the crowd at the tennis match. She stared, thinking he was a tad over dressed for a sporting event in a vest, tie, and long sleeved, collared shirt. It had to be warm, as he’d rolled up his sleeves. But then, everyone around him was wearing button downs and jackets.

British people were strange. 

“Well?” the woman pressed.

“Oh, uh,” Pamela looked at the woman who had her arm linked through Tom’s and was laughing while Tom made a strange face. “No clue.”

She handed back the phone.

“You’re not bothered?” the woman shirked.

Pamela shook her head. “Should I be?”

“They’re saying he’s her girlfriend!”

“They said the same thing when he went to dinner with Lara Pulver,” someone else piped up.

“They also said Pamela’s named Cricket Heidi.”

“Isn’t she the one who started that handbag line with Benedict Cumberbatch?”

“Oh yeah! Those handbags are adorbs!”

“Totally.”

“Have you seen how much she wants for them, though?”

“She makes them by hand,” Pamela quickly added.

“How do you know?”

“Uh, I know her?” Pamela asked.

“You do?” they all asked her looking at her in a new light.

Oh, frack.

“Do you have one?”

“I have one of her old bags,” Pamela admitted. “It’s orange.”

“OMG! You have the Tom bag?”

“Uh, sure.” 

“Cricket Heidi’s husband is in the military,” someone pipped up. “I read her blog. Like all of it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Though, I don’t think they’re together, as she lives in Chicago now. She was just in San Antonio and I think her husband was going through PIT. I seriously want to know who she really is,” one said, looking at Pamela.

Pamela gave an uncomfortable smile. 

“OH!”

Everyone stared at the woman who’d just shirked.

“What, Christa?”

“I just found an article about the status of Tom’s girlfriend!” Christa exclaimed, looking a little smug. “Doesn’t give Pamela’s name, but it points out that the woman is an Air Force pilot. Well, if the woman in the white dress she met at the MTV Movie Awards who was Tom’s guest is his actual girlfriend. You went to the MTV Movie Awards?”

Pamela nodded and chaos broke out. 

* * *

“Remind me to never go to another function that contains Air Force wives. Or any form of women, actually,” Pamela groaned the next morning over Skype to Tom.

He looked confused. “Why, darling dove?”

“All night…Tom this, Tom that. They asked the same questions over and over. They don’t understand why I keep letting the press call me Cricket Heidi. They want to know who Cricket Heidi actually is and oh my god, shoot me.”

Pamela let her head drop onto the table. Tom chuckled. 

“I could correct them.”

“Don’t bother. The woman I sat next to at the MTV thing wrote a story about how I’m not Cricket Heidi, but she didn’t give my name because I’m in the military.” 

“Luke sent that to me,” Tom said, picking up his cell phone off screen as Pamela lifted her head up. “I’ve yet to read it.”

“It was…nice of her not to give my name. I can’t remember if I did give her my name or not, but I did mention I was there because of you,” Pamela said. “I knew I couldn’t be mistaken for Cricket forever. Especially after she went into business with Benedict, hence the story by the reporter.” 

Tom hummed his agreement, eyes reading something on his phone. 

“Door’s all bent out of shape Benedict’s going to do something called _Top Gear_ and she’s not over there to go along,” Pamela went on and Tom hummed again, shaking his head. “Who was that woman you were with at Wimbeldon? If I am asked one more time and don’t have an answer…”

“Oh. Jane. We’re just friends,” Tom said, setting the phone down. “I know everyone is saying we’re dating. I’m sorry.”

“Why? I don’t care as long as you’re not actually dating and since I’ve decided to never associate with another female who is not Door, I doubt it’ll be a problem in the future.”

“Really? You’re going to become a hermit?”

“No. Hermits don’t go to work,” Pamela said. “I plan to continue to go to work and socialize with the other pilots, most of whom are male and don’t care about you.”

Tom pouted. “Why would they not care about me?”

Pamela rolled her eyes. 

“So, who won Wimbeldon?”

Tom launched into an excited tale about some guy named Andy. 


End file.
